


With This Ring

by Quesarasara



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A little crack never hurt anyone, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Boys Kissing, Cover Art, Engagement, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Feelings, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, It's not weird how much I love two middle aged british fictional characters is it?, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quesarasara/pseuds/Quesarasara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It was meant to be romantic,” Sherlock whines.</p>
<p>“Well, mission accomplished then,” John replies.  “Having to explain to the people I work with exactly why I’m taking up a bed in A&E and being wheeled about with my arse hanging out while the nurses try very hard not to laugh <em>directly</em> to my face—height of romance, that.  Well done, you.”	</p>
<p>“I hardly intended for it to end this way,” Sherlock argues.</p>
<p>“You never do.”</p>
<p> <strong>Sometimes even the best of plans go wrong.  And sometimes wrong turns out to be exactly <em>right</em>.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	With This Ring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/gifts).



> This is a concept that got stuck in my brain and never really fit into any longer piece, so I'm calling it a one shot so it will move out of my head and leave me alone. 
> 
> Thanks to my stateside beta for the read through and management of my incurable case of preposition blindness and repetitive word syndrome, and apologies to my brit-picking gal Friday Betty who I didn't want to bother this close to the holidays for this little story. All errors are mine.
> 
> A belated gift for the lovely cwb, whose work expertly rides the delicate line between hilarious and heartfelt--and inspires me to learn to walk it with even half the grace. 
> 
> Side note: As we head into these long winter evenings, if anyone happens to run into the guy who invented daylight savings time would you please punch him REALLY hard in the nose and say "That's from Sara, bitch!" Seriously, the darkness is killing me already.
> 
> Updated 12/6 to include the most Abby-licious cover yet! Thanks for the awesome artwork, Abbs!

Holding the pair of jeans by the waist, Sherlock flicks his wrists to snap the well-worn denim to its full  (though still rather short, he thinks absently) length, then folds it deftly at the front and back center seams, presses the trousers to his chest, quickly slides a long fingered hand down the fabric and pulls the paired bottom hems of the legs up to meet the waist, then brings the hanging edge up once more before setting the neatly folded garment onto the end of the narrow hospital gurney that dominates the small examination room at St. Bart’s A&E.

Gathering up the other items from the heap next to the bed where they were hastily discarded, he repeats the process with the blue checked button down oxford, the dark green cardigan, the thin white cotton vest, then lingers a bit with the sensible grey y-front pants before tucking a sock into each brown leather brogue and tying the laces into neat, straight bows.  He sets the folded clothes atop the shoes and turns to place the stack onto the floor next to the single molded plastic chair against the wall, and is laying John’s coat over the arm of the chair when he feels the rush of air from the door opening behind him just before he hears the squeak of tires against the industrial lino.

“Back up onto the bed now Dr. Watson,” the pretty blond nurse says cheerily, reaching forward to set the brakes on the wheelchair she's just pushed into the room.

Sherlock steps forward and moves to help the patient from the chair, but the withering look John shoots him from his seated position makes him pause. He steps back as the shorter man stands up and walks easily to the edge of the mattress—and if his backless hospital robe slips open and reveals an eyeful of naked arse as John climbs onto and settles himself against the raised head of the bed, Sherlock decides not to mention it.

“All set then?” the nurse asks, smiling when John nods in her direction, before turning to Sherlock.  “Dr. Whitford will be in as soon as he’s had a chance to look at the x-rays—and remember, nothing to eat or drink until further notice.”

“Understood,” Sherlock says.  “I’ll see to it that he doesn’t ingest anything—“

“Ha!” John rolls his eyes as the nurse and Sherlock turn to look at him, the former with a somewhat amused smile and the latter with a decidedly guilty expression on his face.  The pretty young nurse leans over, lays a hand on Sherlock’s bicep, and squeezes gently.

“Try not to take it personally,” She says kindly.  “Patients can get very emotional around here, my fiancé was the same way when he broke his ankle last year.”

“I’m not his fiancé,” John says, a dangerous smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to talk it out then,” the nurse says brightly to John.  “Press the call button if you need anything at all, Dr. Watson.”

“Thanks, Jess," John replies, giving her a tired smile.

As she wheels the chair out the open door, she gives Sherlock a small wave and whispers ‘good luck’ before she disappears into the hall and the door closes behind her. 

Sherlock stares at the closed door for a few moments, then turns his head towards John and regards him where he lays against the pillow, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest.  Exhaling slowly, he leans over and grasps the arm of the single chair in the room and drags it closer to the edge of the bed before sitting down heavily into it.  He stares at John’s still face for a long moment, then takes a breath to speak.

“No,” John says before Sherlock has even uttered a sound, shaking his head slowly without opening his eyes. 

Sherlock freezes for a moment, mouth hanging open, before he snaps his lips closed and leans back in the chair and huffs out a sigh.

“I was only going to say that—“

“Don’t,” John says tightly, the note of warning unmistakable in his tone, his mouth set in a thin line below his still-closed eyes.

“It was meant to be romantic,” Sherlock whines.

“Well, mission accomplished then,” John replies.   “Having to explain to the people I work with exactly why I’m taking up a bed in A&E and being wheeled about with my arse hanging out while the nurses try very hard not to laugh _directly_ to my face—height of romance, that.  Well done, you.”

“I hardly intended for it to end this way,” Sherlock argues.

“You never do.”

“And to be perfectly fair, I’m not the one who—”

“ _Stop. Talking._ ”

Sherlock throws up his hands in frustration, his long fingers moving to card roughly through his dark curls, eyes pressed shut tightly as he takes a long, deep breath and tries again.

“John,” Sherlock begins, “I don’t know how you expect me to apologize if you won’t even let me…” but his voice trails off as John opens his eyes to meet his gaze, the intensity radiating from the deep pools of blue rimmed by gold lashes enough to halt the words in his suddenly dry throat, forming a strangely tangible lump that he swallows against as he meets John’s stare.

“An apology?” John looks at him eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.  “You do know what that word means, don’t you?”

Sherlock waves dismissively. “Of course I do.” 

“You’re sure about that are you?” John asks, again raising a hand to halt another knee-jerk dismissive answer.  “Because a proper apology involves you actually _being_ sorry, and not blaming the person you’re meant to be apologizing _to_ for whatever it is _you’ve_ done.”

“Yes, I know all of that,” Sherlock snaps.  “I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable. ” John sighs.  “But all right.  Go ahead.”

“I’m sorry, John."

John looks at him expectantly, then cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “Ok. You’re sorry…for what, exactly?”

Sherlock huffs out a long sigh, rolls his eyes, then takes a deep breath and continues. “I’m sorry that in my attempt to make a grand gesture I failed to take into account your propensity to inhale anything edible placed in front of you in as few mouthfuls as possible.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” John says.  “I _really_ can’t believe you sometimes.”

“Me?” Sherlock looks at him haughtily.  “I’m not the one who ate the majority of a chocolate soufflé in exactly four bites, apparently without any action even resembling _chewing_ —“

“That right there? That is exactly what I’m talking about, Sherlock,” John huffs, his voice rising in proportion with the red that colors his cheeks.  “You’re not blaming this one on me.  Not this time.”

“I’m not saying it was your _fault_ , John, I am merely pointing out that your tendency to consume every meal as though it’s your last may have played a _slight_ role in your ingesting two thousand quid worth of—“

“That _tendency_ , as you so tactfully put it, is a habit I picked up during several years as a combat surgeon—when meals were something you consumed quickly between crises, if you were lucky.  And I’d also like to point out that it’s something that’s served me quite well in my life as the sidekick of the world’s only consulting detective who, I might add, has a _tendency_ to believe that everyone else on earth can live on tea and the occasional piece of toast without passing out from malnutrition!”

A pointed cough sounds from door, and both men turn to see a tall figure in surgical scrubs and a white coat standing in the doorway, a slight smile on his face as he looks from one man to the other.

“Apologies for the interruption, gentlemen,” the physician says with a nod and an amused glint in his eye.  “I did knock first but not loudly enough, it would seem.”

“Now _that_ was an apology,” John says, nodding toward the new arrival and raising an eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction, “See the difference?”

Sherlock shrugs and rolls his eyes, which seems to satisfy John for the moment.

“Sorry about that, Pete,” John sighs.

“No problem, John,” the man says with a smile, stepping forward to shake his patient’s hand before turning toward Sherlock and doing the same.  “Dr. Peter Whitford.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the consulting detective answers with a nod. 

“Nice to finally meet you,” Dr. Whitford replies pleasantly. “I’m the gastro-intestinal surgeon on call tonight, and I’ll be handling John’s case.  I assure you that your fiancé is in very good hands with us.”

“Not _actually_ his fiancé,” John interjects, and Sherlock shakes his head and huffs out a sigh between pursed lips.

“Let’s see if we can do something about that, shall we?” Peter Whitford says, flashing a quick wink in Sherlock’s direction.

“Fine,” John says, taking a deep breath.  “What’s the prognosis?”

“Quite good, I’m happy to report.” Dr. Whitford pulls a large flat envelope from where it’s tucked beneath his arm and slips an opaque film from it over the light box on the wall before flipping the switch to reveal an x-ray image of a torso.  “As you can clearly see, the foreign object is still in the stomach along with the contents of the meal you consumed.”

Three sets of eyes take in the image on the wall, where just under the ribcage the object in question is clearly visible--bright, gleaming white and perfectly round.

“While platinum itself poses no poisoning risk,” Dr. Whitford continues, pointing to the image, “and it appears that the object is smooth enough that it would likely pass through your digestive system eventually with fairly minimal risk of harm, the current placement of the item makes you an ideal candidate for a relatively simple endoscopic removal if we act quickly.”

“That is good news,” John says with a sigh, “Let’s get on with it then.”

“Wait,” Sherlock says, stepping closer to the side of the bed while his teeth worry a bit at his bottom lip before turning to look at Dr. Whitford.  “Is the procedure quite safe? Will John need to be anaesthetized?”

“Light sedation should be adequate,” Dr. Whitford says with a smile.  “Perfectly safe, and barring any unforeseen complications we should be able to release Dr. Watson in a few hours’ time.”

“Complications?” Sherlock's eyes widen, a note of alarm in his voice.  “What sort of complications?”

“It’s all right, Sherlock,” John sighs, the frustrated set of his mouth softening a bit at the look of concern on the taller man’s face as he reaches out and slides his hand into his palm and threads his short fingers between Sherlock’s longer ones.  “It’s quite a simple procedure, and though it’s more commonly performed on four year old children than forty-three year old men, it’s not dangerous.”

“Promise?” Sherlock asks, eyebrows knitted to form a deep crease over the bridge of his nose. 

“Promise,” John answers, a small smile tipping at his lips as he pulls Sherlock down by their joined hands and rests their foreheads together before tilting his chin up and meeting the taller man’s lips in a soft kiss.

“So you’re not angry with me anymore?”

“Oh no, love,” John whispers against his lips before giving him a last small peck of a kiss and pulling away.  “I’m still rather furious with you, actually.”

“Ok then,” Dr. Whitford says, opening the exam room door to admit two more staff members who begin gathering John’s belongings and raising the rails on his bed preparing to move him towards the operating theaters down the hall.

Sherlock lets go of John’s hand reluctantly, stepping aside as the staff begins to wheel him from the room.  Following the gurney down the corridor, the surgeon turns to Sherlock and gestures to the outpatient surgical waiting area.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Holmes. We’ll have that ring out and ready for you to slip onto his finger right where it belongs.  Your fiancé will be as good as new in no time at all.”

“Not technically his fiancé!” John calls out, turning his head as the gurney breaches the entrance to the surgical wing.

When Sherlock’s posture slumps a bit, Dr. Whitford reaches out and gives his shoulder a squeeze, flashes Sherlock a reassuring smile, then follows John as he disappears through the double doors.

\----------------------

When the taxi pulls to a stop in front of 221B a few hours later, Sherlock takes a break from worrying his fingers over the small ring of metal enclosed in a zip top plastic bag through the fabric of his left front trouser pocket to hurriedly pass a few notes to the driver through the divider.  He scrambles out of his side of the cab and circles around the back of the car just in time to see that John is already standing on the stoop and sliding his key into the lock on the heavy black door.

“I was going to get that,” he tells John, a note of petulant exasperation in his voice.

“I’m perfectly capable of unlocking a door, Sherlock," John says, frustration warring with weariness in his tone as well.

“I know that,” Sherlock sighs, “I just thought you might be worn out from your… _procedure_ , and would appreciate the help.”

“What I’d appreciate right now is a hot bath, tea, and several uninterrupted hours of sleep,” John snaps.

“Fine.” Sherlock shrugs, and follows John up the stairs and into their flat, stands beside him as they hang their coats, then watches the former army doctor’s back retreat through the kitchen and down the hall before he disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

Sherlock takes a long look around the silent flat, then crosses wearily to his armchair and sinks down into it.  Reaching into his pocket, he extracts the small plastic bag and holds it up in front of his face pinched between two long, slender fingers.  The light from the kitchen shines through the center of the simple platinum band, the finely polished finish gleaming no less brightly for the strange trip it’s been on this evening. 

He hadn’t thought to ask the jeweler how the ring might fare in the event of unexpected exposure to human digestive acids when he’d commissioned it, but finds himself impressed nonetheless.  It’s a lovely piece of craftsmanship, deceptively simple in appearance but constructed of the highest quality materials available, rare and precious and sturdy and dependable. 

Just like the man he’d bought it for, really.

With a sigh he stands and walks into the kitchen, fills the kettle and flips it on.  Extracting the ring from the small plastic bag, he sets about giving it a thorough cleaning, drying it carefully with a soft cloth before slipping it back into his trouser pocket.  When the kettle boils, he pulls John’s favorite mug down from the cupboard, steeps the tea for exactly two minutes, adds a splash of milk, then walks to the bedroom and retrieves John’s dressing gown from where he left it hung over the edge of the bed that morning.  He knocks softly at the bathroom door, resisting the urge to just walk in during the long pause that follows, then lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding when John’s calls out a weary ‘ _come in_ ’.

The pleasant humidity in the air curls around Sherlock as he slips into the room, lays John’s dressing gown within reach over the edge of the sink, then crosses to where John is lying submerged in steaming water with the back of his head perched on the edge of the tub and his eyes closed.  He extends the mug of tea silently, and after a moment John opens his eyes and looks at the offered beverage with a bit of surprise before reaching up and taking it carefully from Sherlock’s hand.  He brings it to his lips and takes a tentative sip, his eyes closing around the first mouthful in what Sherlock recognizes instantly as pleasure. 

John looks up at him for a long moment, then tips his head slightly.

“Thanks,” he says, taking another sip.

Sherlock gives him a small smile, nods, and bends to pick up John’s discarded clothing from the floor (again), before slipping back out through the door and into the bedroom.  He busies himself by removing John’s wallet and keys and mobile from the pockets of his jeans, then putting all the dirty clothes into the basket next to the wardrobe.  Stripping off his own clothes he exchanges the tailored shirt and bespoke suit for one of John’s threadbare t-shirts and a pair of soft flannel pyjama trousers and takes a lap around the flat turning off lights and locking doors as he goes. 

Standing back at the edge of the bed, he stares for a moment at the still-closed bathroom door.  Slipping a long fingered hand into the flimsy pocket at his hip, he runs a fingertip around the smooth edge of the ring that was meant to be on John’s hand by now.  With a sigh, he turns off the light, makes his way around to the far side of the bed, slips between the covers and curls up on his side with the sheets pulled snugly under his chin, presses his eyes closed and waits.

\----------------------

When the bathroom door opens some time later, the hiss of the water draining from the tub seeps softly into the room behind the wave of warm, moist air and the faint scent of toothpaste and shampoo that follow the bare footfalls approaching the edge of the bed.  There’s a cool rush of air as the covers are lifted, a shift of weight as another body climbs in, a rustle of sheets as John slides down and settles beside him on the mattress.

“Are you awake?”

Sherlock stays very still for a moment, not pretending to be asleep, per se—just listening, cataloguing the various data points from which he can glean John’s mood in the dark.

Vocal pitch and tone _(tired, moderately strained)_ , posture ( _relaxed_ ), pulse ( _slightly elevated, though to be honest he’s fairly certain the heartbeat he can feel thrumming through the springs of the mattress is actually his own_ ).  Respiration ( _normal, but a bit weary if the long sigh just heaved is any indication_ ).  Conclusion? _No longer livid, but still a bit cross_.

“I know you’re not asleep, Sherlock,” John says to the ceiling on the crest of another soft exhalation.

Sherlock heaves a soft sigh of his own, then turns over to his other side towards John in the dark, lies there silently for a few more moments tracing the other man’s profile with his eyes in the scant light that streams into the room from between the loosely drawn curtains.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock whispers. 

“I know,” John replies, and Sherlock can hear the slight smile that tips at his lips as the shorter man turns onto his side and faces him, just a foot of space between them on the bed.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time," Sherlock begins softly.  “My research indicated several proposal scenarios that are generally considered to be quite popular according to many trusted internet sources.  I narrowed it down to three, but since we rarely go to sporting events the one involving something called a ‘jumbotron’ seemed the least desirable, our circle of friends and acquaintances showed very little enthusiasm for being part of a ‘flash-mob’, and in the end Molly and I agreed that hiding the ring in a special dessert at the end of a meal was the method you were most likely to find agreeable. It appeared to be a fairly foolproof plan.”

“So you asked the chef to bake the ring into the soufflé?” John asks, his curiosity evident.

“Not exactly. I may have created a small distraction by spilling my wine when the waiter punctured your soufflé and dropped the ring into the pool of crème fraiche he’d drizzled into it.  I’m afraid I didn’t account for the fact that the visibility of the ring was a fairly important factor in the success of the operation.”

“Or the fact that I tend to swallow my food whole like a boa constrictor,” John adds, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees.  “There is that, as well.”

John huffs out a small laugh, the breathy sound morphing into a dry cough.  Sherlock presses himself up on an elbow and looks down at John, eyebrows knitted in concern.

“I’m fine,” John says, swallowing a few times.  “Throat’s just a bit dry from the procedure earlier, nothing to be concerned about.”

Sherlock sits up quickly and reaches over John’s shoulder onto the bedside table, flicks on the lamp and picks up the ever present glass of water beside the bed. He slides a hand beneath John’s neck and gently raises his head then sets the cup against his lips, tipping it just enough so that John can take a long pull, a soft sigh of contentment slipping from his mouth afterwards.  Sherlock returns the glass to its place on the table and settles back down onto his side beneath the covers.

John stares at him for a moment, then slowly leans forward and lays a soft kiss over Sherlock’s mouth, his lips slick and cool from the water.

“I’m not angry anymore,” John says then, his voice tired and a bit hoarse.

“You’d have every right to be, if you were.”

“No, I really wouldn’t,” John says, sheets rising as he shrugs his shoulders at the pronouncement.  “You didn’t set out to make me swallow a foreign object, after all.”

“No, I didn’t,” Sherlock agrees, a wry smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. “Though I will say that that I am rather fond of your ability to do so, in specific situations.”

“Down, boy,” John says, only half joking.  “I think I’m off swallowing anything more challenging than tea and soft foods for a day or two at least.”

“Hmm.  Pity." Sherlock smiles as the comment elicits another soft laugh from the man next to him.

“If I’m being honest,” John continues, pausing to take a deep breath.  “I wasn’t really angry about the soufflé to begin with, I don’t think.”

“No?” Sherlock asks, a hint of confusion in the reply. 

“No.” John confirms, then pauses.  The moment stretches out for a few beats, tense, but not angry.  Sherlock is used to these lulls in their conversations, he knows that silence has its place between them and rarely feels the need speak just for the sake of filling it.  He waits for John to continue, and after a few more moments he does.  “You just surprised me, is all.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Sherlock asks, his casual tone tinged with a hint of something John recognizes as fear, a twinge of anxiety that few others—if anyone—would be able to detect.

“Not usually, no,"  John says fondly.  “You’re full of surprises, Sherlock.  You think I’d be used to it by now.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s just…” John begins, pausing to gather his thoughts for a moment as his tongue darts out and over his bottom lip and his eyes crinkle in the way that the man he’s speaking to never fails to find endearing.  “I suppose I wasn’t expecting it, is all.  I thought it might happen someday. Hoped it would, even.  It’s a big moment after all, something I’ve thought a lot about.  My whole life I figured that one day I’d meet a nice girl, buy a ring, get down on one knee, and ask the question.”

“I am not a nice girl, John.”

“Truer words were never spoken, love,” John says solemnly, lips tightly together as he attempts to suppress a smile.

Sherlock stares at him thoughtfully for a long moment.

“You’re still a young man, you know,” he tells John lightly, then rolls onto his back and looks at the ceiling before taking a breath and continuing to speak.  “And a doctor.  If you want to dissolve our relationship and look for a more suitable marriage partner I expect you’d have very little trouble attracting the attention of any number of eligible women, and I’m sure that at least one of them would be—”

“ _No_ ,” John interrupts, the interjection forceful enough that it startles Sherlock into silence as John presses up on an elbow to look intently down at him, his gaze bright and hard and clear even in the dim light of the room.  “That’s not what this is about at all, Sherlock.”

“You just said that you always thought you’d meet a nice girl…” Sherlock reiterates, eyebrows knitted together in suspicious confusion.

“You’re right, that’s exactly what I said,” John concedes with a sigh.  “But what I _meant_ was that—no matter who it was that I hoped would agree to marry me—I always thought that when the time came I would be the one doing the asking.”

“You have been the one to do the asking, John,” Sherlock reminds him, raising an eyebrow meaningfully at him.  “I was there the night you proposed to Mary, you may recall.”

“True,” John agrees with a nod.  “But as _you_ may recall, that didn’t quite go as planned.  My best friend chose that very moment to come back from the dead, and I was interrupted before I could officially pop the question.”

“Unfortunate timing,”  Sherlock says quietly, eyes drifting back to the ceiling.

“It’s a gift of his,” John says with a sigh and a grin.  “So you see, technically, I’ve never done the asking.”

“Hm, I know the feeling,” Sherlock offers sympathetically.  “Technically I’ve never done the asking either.  Before I could pop the question, someone _ate_ the ring.”

John huffs out a soft laugh. "Unfortunate timing."

Sherlock quirks a smile at that, then turns his head and stares at him for a long moment with eyes full of affection that gradually begin to crease around the edges as he narrows them, studying John’s face intently in the dim light of the room.

“Just so I’m clear,” Sherlock begins, clearing his throat slightly as his eyes drop to focus somewhere in the narrow expanse of space between them on the bed, “It was the direction of the question you objected to, not the concept itself, correct?”

John feels his breath catch in his chest suddenly, his eyes drawn to the movement of two long pale fingers picking nervously at the sheet beneath them,  his ears attuned to the vulnerability that quivers just beneath the question, his heart breaking just a bit at the uncertainty he can feel radiating off the man lying beside him. 

Closing the space between them, John reaches up to clasp Sherlock’s long face between his palms, tilting his chin upward to insure that the pale grey irises are focused on his own dark blue eyes before he speaks.

“Listen carefully, all right?  I love you, Sherlock.  I love our life together.  It’s dangerous and exciting and wonderful and arguably not entirely sane—but it’s _ours_ —and there is no place in the world I’d rather be than right here with you.  I wake up every day and I still can’t believe, after everything that’s happened, after all that we’ve been through, that you chose _me_. That I am yours and you are mine, and we are right where we belong.  I’m with you, wherever that may be. And I’ll never want to be _anywhere_ else.”

Staring into Sherlock’s wide, unblinking eyes for a long moment, John feels the muscles beneath his palms begin to move, a deliberate and slow progression that lifts at the corners of the perfect cupid’s bow of a mouth until a broad smile blooms over the handsome, angular features—the expression lighting up the dim room right along with his face.  Long, pale fingers slide up tanned forearms and circle strong wrists with gentle pressure, then slip away to lay flat against the mattress between them as Sherlock sits up suddenly and climbs over John and out of the bed.

John tracks the movement with his eyes, then turns over beneath the covers to stare up at Sherlock where he stands beside the bed.  John takes the hand extended towards him, and sits up at the edge of the mattress. 

Gazing at the questioning look on John’s face, Sherlock sinks slowly down onto one knee, reaches into the pocket of his pyjama trousers and pulls out the gleaming platinum band.  Sliding his pale fingers up the tanned wrist below them, he turns the shorter man’s hand in his own and gently places the ring into the center of John’s empty palm.  John stares down at it for a long moment, then raises his head to meet Sherlock’s hopeful gaze.  Lifting his other hand from where it rests beside him on the bed, John takes the ring between his thumb and forefinger, holds it up before him, looks into Sherlock’s eyes, and takes a deep breath.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry me?”

Sherlock looks back at him intently, a slow smile spreading over his lips.

“ _Yes_.”

John leans forward and presses his mouth to Sherlock’s, lips stretching into a smile over the pair beneath his.  Pulling back a bit, Sherlock reaches down and plucks the ring from his grasp and slips it deftly onto the third finger of John’s left hand.  

Stretching his arm out before him, John spreads his fingers and turns his hand to watch the faint lamplight glint off the ring.  Looking back up to the face of the man still on his knee before him, John reaches forward and grabs a fistful of shirt and hauls him forward to crush their lips together in a bruising kiss.

Sherlock huffs out a surprised breath against John’s mouth, then quickly reaches forward to settle his large hands around John’s hips and melts into the kiss.  Slowly and methodically, John licks his way into Sherlock’s mouth, one hand curling over a broad shoulder to thread his fingers into the thick curls at the back of his head, the other slipping up under the hem of his t-shirt to slide up the warm expanse of lean, muscled chest below it—fingertips teasing a pink nipple into a tight nub and pinching it softly.  John smiles at the warm gasp against his mouth, biting at Sherlock’s lips and pulling him even closer with the hand tangled in his hair. 

Sliding his mouth wetly up and over one impossibly sharp cheekbone, John kisses his way to the elegant curve of Sherlock’s ear and runs the tip of his tongue slowly around the edge of it, huffing hot breath over the trail of moisture.  There’s a low growl of pleasure from the man on the floor before him, and John smiles as he feels long fingers dig into the flesh at his hips to haul him up and push him roughly back toward the center of the mattress.

John falls back onto the pillows, breath knocked out of his lungs with a soft _humpf_ as six feet of lanky consulting detective crawls up to loom over him, caging him with a knee pressed into the bed beside each of his thighs while one broad palm slides from his hip up over his ribs and back down again in as the other reaches around his neck to cradle the back of his head, one long thumb swiping gently over John’s jaw as Sherlock leans down and methodically kisses him senseless.  When he feels those clever lips leave his own and slide down over his jaw to mouth wetly at the soft skin of his neck, he slides his own palms up and over Sherlock’s waist, the fingers of his right hand raking up the warm skin of his back beneath his t-shirt, the fingers of his left hand slipping beneath the waist of the taller man’s pyjama bottoms and over the round swell of the spectacular arse beneath them. 

Breaking the kiss for a moment, Sherlock sits up suddenly and quickly pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor, then looks down at John before swiftly sliding his fingers below the hem of John’s shirt and hauling it roughly up and off of him, casting it aside, and then staring down at John’s bare chest from astride his hips.  John reaches out and slides his hands slowly up Sherlock’s pyjama-clad thighs, enjoying the feel of the strong muscles pulled taut below the skin beneath the soft fabric. 

He watches Sherlock’s eyes, sees the pools of liquid silver as they travel over every inch of his bared chest, watches them linger on the starburst scar at his shoulder.  Sherlock has seen him naked hundreds of times, has touched and tasted and examined and licked and kissed every inch of his skin—and yet every time John bares himself to the man, it’s feels as though he’s being seen for the first time. It’s a singularly erotic experience, and John finds himself oddly choked up under Sherlock’s intense gaze. 

“John,” Sherlock whispers, his voice soft and reverent as he leans over and slides a hand up the smaller man’s cheek, thumb swiping away the tear John didn’t realize had spilled over it.  He bends forward and slides his other hand up under John’s shoulder, bracing himself on one elbow and rolling to his side, a long thigh sliding over John’s to rest between his legs, the warm skin of their stomachs pressed together as Sherlock cradles his face and looks at him with gentle concern.  “Are you all right?

John sucks in a breath, a soft sob catching in his throat as he nods and smiles up through the surprise tears that fill his eyes.

“I’m fine, love,” he says softly, pressing his hands to the small of Sherlock’s back, swiping his palms in slow circles over the smooth, warm skin.  “It’s just—well, you said _yes_.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says again, nodding his head and smiling down at John before leaning forward and kissing away a tear from one rough cheek.  “Yes,” he says as he repeats the motion on John’s other cheek.  “Yes,” he whispers against the shell of one ear, full lips catching the lobe between them and sucking softly.  “Yes,” he purrs, pressing his tongue flat against the pulse below John’s jaw.  “Yes,” he hisses before he closes his teeth over the tendon at the base of John’s neck and bites down.  “Yes,” he breathes as he drags wet lips over a tanned shoulder and across a smooth collarbone.  “Yes,” he huffs, just before his lips slip over a soft patch of hair and close around an already taut nipple to suck firmly, teeth scraping roughly against the tender skin pulled between them.

“ _Yes_ ,” John cries, back arching up off the bed toward the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth as the taller man’s talented, clever fingers trail softly down his sides to hook under the waistband of his boxers and slide them down his trembling thighs, past his knees, and off all together in one long, slow drag.  John bends a knee and brings his foot up the bed to plant his heel into the mattress, the extra leverage allowing him to push himself closer into the man above him, Sherlock’s pyjama clad hip pressed tightly against his aching cock where it lies flush with his belly, precome smearing over both the fabric and John’s skin.  

He feels Sherlock smile against his chest, clutches desperately at miles of pale, muscled back as one long fingered hand slides slowly down his side and around his hip to clutch at his arse, squeezing one firm cheek pressed into the mattress while his other hand reaches into the open drawer of the bedside table before finding what it’s searching for.

Sherlock pulls off John’s nipple with a wet pop, and trails kisses down his chest and over his quivering stomach, nuzzles his face into the warm crease where hip meets thigh, kiss-swollen lips ghosting over the coarse thatch of hair to mouth softly at the wide base of his cock.  John groans at the contact, the short fingers of one hand tangling themselves into Sherlock’s curls while the other hand clutches at a broad shoulder, fingertips digging into the muscles that flex below them.

Sliding further down the bed, Sherlock presses a large hand to the back of John’s raised knee and lifts it over his shoulder, giving him better access to John’s heavy bollocks and the tender skin behind them.  He laves his tongue over John’s smooth perineum, smiling when his lip catches against John’s puckered entrance and it flutters slightly, smiling even more broadly when John’s breath catches at the same moment, a broken moan escaping from his lips and into the still air of the room.

John pants at the ceiling, and when he hears the telltale click of a cap being flicked open, he bites down hard at his lower lip and wills himself to relax, the knee slung over Sherlock’s shoulder falling slowly to the side, opening himself wide to Sherlock’s ministrations.  When a cool, slick finger presses between his cheeks, he closes his eyes and bites back a groan as it slowly breaches his tight opening at the same time a warm mouth closes over the head of his cock, soft lips sliding down the length of him—until a long finger is fully seated within his arse and Sherlock’s lips are pressed tight to the skin around the base of his cock.

“ _Christ_ ,” John exhales, more of a whisper than a moan, a growl forming in the back of his throat as Sherlock’s mouth and hand begin fucking and swallowing him in tandem with a slow, deliberate rhythm.  He knows he’s pulling at Sherlock’s hair, his fingers tangled too tightly into those mahogany curls to be strictly polite, but even as he tries to loosen his grip Sherlock slides a second finger beside the one already inside of him and _twists his wrist,_ and John can’t even feel his fingers any more, much less control them.  There’s a warm tightness deep inside him, a low crackle of electricity that licks at the base of his spine and make his bollocks tighten and suddenly John regains control of his faculties long enough to pull Sherlock’s lips up and off of his cock.

“ _No_ ,” he pants down at the man staring up at him from between his legs with pupils blown so wide the grey-green irises are barely visible now, dark curls springing in every direction like an insane halo, lips red and swollen and shiny with saliva that drips down over his chin where it’s paused above John’s nearly painfully engorged prick.

“Not good?” Sherlock asks in a voice far too timid to have come from the mouth that just made John fairly certain his head was going to explode.

“Oh no, love,” John pants, voice tight and breathy and wrecked.  “So good.  So _fucking_ good.  _Too_ good.  I don’t want to come yet.”

Sherlock smiles up at him, a beatific expression that stops John’s heart for a moment, and when it restarts he clutches frantically at Sherlock’s shoulders and hauls him up his body and into a rough, messy kiss.  When the taller man’s weight settles reassuringly against him, he licks his way into that clever mouth, tasting longing and desperation and love and the bitter tang of himself on the slick skin of Sherlock’s lips.  They lie that way for a few long minutes, the frantic kisses melting into something slower and less urgent, and John trails his hands down Sherlock’s back and into the waistband of his pyjamas, anxious to remove this final barrier between them.  Sherlock manages to shimmy out of the soft trousers without ever breaking the contact between their mouths, and John’s knees fall open to cradle slim hips between his thighs, a long, flushed erection slotting perfectly next to his own.

For a while it’s slowly rolling hips, sweet languid kisses, hot huffs of breath, and the slide of sweat-slick skin.  When Sherlock reaches down and searches for the bottle of lube he’d discarded earlier, John smiles into the curve of his neck and waits.  When he eventually finds it and sits up on his knees to click the cap open, John spreads his legs a bit wider, then gives a small gasp of surprise when a wet hand closes around his cock, carefully slicking him from root to tip, breath catching in his throat as he watches Sherlock’s other hand disappear behind him, the steady rhythm of his forearm and elbow along with the softly panting breaths coming from his mouth making it abundantly clear that he’s preparing himself for John.

After a long moment, Sherlock’s hand reappears to slide up John’s thigh to splay gently across his stomach, and he shuffles forward to plant a knee on either side of John’s hips, his other hand still gently working the slick cock in his fingers with a steady, loose grip.  He leans forward and John lifts his head to meet Sherlock’s and their mouths slide together wetly as Sherlock reaches down to line them up properly—then slides himself slowly down onto John’s aching prick.

“Oh fuck,” John pants, hands scrabbling for purchase as they slide up Sherlock’s thighs and around sharp hipbones, fingers digging into the soft flesh behind them, and the answering low, deep grumble of pleasure from Sherlock seems to roll through him like thunder, thrumming through his muscles and rattling his bones.  John closes his eyes and loses himself in the sensation.

It’s a long, slow ride—warm and tight and slick and lovely.  Sherlock rocks above him, his head thrown back and the soft hoarse moans that escape from his lips roll over John’s skin like honey as he grips slender hips and thrusts slowly upward. He watches Sherlock’s face, the sharp features gone slack and relaxed in pleasure, and when John slides one hand across a flat expanse of pale stomach to grip the flushed cock pressed up against it, the man above him gasps, hips pushing forward into the sudden contact.  John pumps him slowly with long, deliberate strokes that push the silky, retracted foreskin back up over the glans.  He runs his thumb gently over the weeping slit, enjoys the soft, broken sounds that Sherlock makes as he quickens the pace.  He can hear the change in Sherlock’s breathing, can feel his abdominal muscles tense, knows he’s getting close—and suddenly, John knows he doesn’t have much longer either. 

He can’t help it. 

Sherlock on the verge of losing control is the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever seen.  It gets him every time.

John sits up suddenly, slides his arms around Sherlock’s back, presses his lips roughly to the taller man’s mouth, then rolls him over onto his back and thrusts as hard as he can.  Sherlock gasps beneath him, fingernails scraping up his back and digging into tense shoulder blades, and hangs on tight as John pulls the long thighs wrapped around him up further, plants one hand flat on the bed next to Sherlock’s neck, then wraps the other around Sherlock’s leaking cock and fucks him into the mattress.  A dozen deep strokes later, fifteen at the most, Sherlock cries out his name, hot come is spurting between his fingers, and John is lost—hips pumping furiously, emptying himself deep inside the man he loves.

The lay tangled for a long while, breathing together, pressing their lips into each other’s skin, until John lays a final kiss on Sherlock’s mouth and rolls onto his back.  He slides an arm over the edge of the bed, grabs the first piece of clothing he can find, and leans over and gently wipes Sherlock clean with the ancient U2 t-shirt Sherlock is so fond of wearing to bed these days.  He runs the soft fabric over his own skin as well, then huffs out a long, satisfied breath.

Tossing the soiled t-shirt over the edge of the bed, John presses his head back into the pillow as a yawn steals over him and he stretches slowly as it passes, eyes closing and his left hand falling to the side as he runs the back of his fingers slowly up and down the warm skin of Sherlock’s chest, knuckles grazing through the sparse hair peppered there.   On his third pass up and over the crest of the taller man’s ribs, Sherlock raises his own hand to catch John’s and presses their palms together.  John grins as he feels one graceful fingertip slide up and over the smooth surface of the band on his third finger, smiles even more widely when Sherlock lifts their joined hands and presses his lips against the cool metal of the ring.

“It really is beautiful,” John says softly, looking at his own hand where it’s enclosed in Sherlock’s.  “And doesn’t seem any worse for the wear, considering where it’s been.”

“All the better for it, actually," Sherlock says, then smiles at the puzzled expression on John’s face before continuing.  “For a short while, it was a _part_ of you, John.  As close to your heart as anything could possibly be.  It’s quite romantic when you think about it.”

“We’ve really got to have a talk about your definition of romance,” John teases, tipping his head to rest it against Sherlock’s broad, bare shoulder and looking back at the ring on his hand.  “It doesn’t seem quite fair, though.”

“It doesn’t?” Sherlock asks, pulling in his chin and looking down his nose at John’s face.  “What doesn’t?”

“That I’m the one who got to do the asking, _and_ I’m the one who got the ring,” John explains, giving Sherlock’s hand a squeeze and then sitting up suddenly beside him on the bed.  “Seems like you should get something out of the deal as well.”

“If you’re referring to sex, I’m afraid my refractory period—while impressive—isn’t quite so short that I’m ready for another go just yet,” Sherlock replies, pressing up onto his elbows to look at John.  “But give me half an hour and we can revisit the issue.”

“Actually,” John says, huffing out a short laugh and turning to open the drawer in his bedside table.  “I have something for you as well.”

He roots around until he finds what he’s looking for then turns to Sherlock and hands it to him with a flourish.  The detective looks down at the slightly bent cardboard box in his hand, and then back up at John with a puzzled expression.

“This is a half-empty box of condoms,” Sherlock says.

“Well spotted,” John confirms with a smile. “You should be a detective.”

“We don’t use condoms, John,” Sherlock replies, eyebrows still knitted in confusion.  “Haven’t in months.”

“True,” John agrees, his smile broadening. “Which is why I figured you’d never look inside of it.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him, tips his head in recognition of John’s nearly flawless logic, then flips open the top of the box and retrieves the smaller box tucked inside—square and black and hinged at the back.   He looks to John for permission, and when the shorter man nods his head he flips up the lid.  Nestled into a crease of dark blue velvet is a gleaming gold band.

“There were so many bloody rings in the shop,” John begins, the words pouring nervously from his mouth as Sherlock continues to stare into the small box in his hand.  “The salesman kept showing me more and they all looked the same to me—until this one.  It’s—”

“Rose gold, satin finish, solid core, slight bezel to the edge, expertly crafted,” Sherlock interjects, tilting the box to examine the piece from different angles.

“Well, I was going to say ‘something I could see you wearing every day’, but yeah—all that too. I know it’s not specially commissioned designer platinum, but it’s—“

“ _Perfect_ ,” Sherlock says softly, looking up at John who sighs with something that sounds like relief. 

“I’m glad you think so,” John tells him, then gently takes the box from Sherlock’s fingers, reaches in and plucks the ring from where it’s nestled snugly inside of it, then turns a large pale hand over with his smaller tanned one and gently sets the band into the center of Sherlock’s palm.  He waits until Sherlock looks back up into his eyes, then smiles softly at him.  “Was there something you wanted to ask me earlier?”

Sherlock looks down at the ring nestled in his palm, the velvety rose gold finish glowing softly in the lamplight.  Gripping it gently between his long fingers, he lifts it from his hand and rolls it between his fingertips, top teeth biting nervously at his plush bottom lip as he watches the light dance off its curves.  After a moment he raises his eyes to John’s, holds his gaze for a long beat, then takes a deep breath.

“John Hamish Watson, would you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

John stares back at him, eyes crinkling at the corners as a slow smile spreads across his lips. 

“Oh God yes.”

Sherlock’s face breaks out into a triumphant grin, and he darts forward and presses his lips against John’s, then tips his head down to press their foreheads together.   He watches as John reaches out with his right hand to lift Sherlock’s left from where it rests between them on the bed as deep blue eyes stare pointedly at the ring still clutched between his finger and thumb.

Sherlock follows his gaze to the perfectly round piece of precious metal, watches the light that glints off the smooth surface and reflects up to play against the honeyed skin of John’s neck and face, then looks back up at John with a smile, opens his mouth, pops the ring onto his tongue…and _swallows_.

John’s eyes go wide as saucers as he sucks in a sharp gasp of a breath, and when he opens his mouth no sound comes out at first, just a series of breathy squeaks as he struggles to form the words he finally manages to speak.

“Sherlock Holmes, did you actually just purposely swallow that ring?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers with a small nod.

“What the hell were you thinking?” John asks, his voice rising in alarm as he reaches forward and grabs him by the shoulders and runs his fingers clinically up his neck and back down the length of his trachea.  “Did it go all the way down?  It doesn’t feel stuck in your windpipe, does it?”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head.  “It was rather easier to swallow than I thought it might be, actually.”

“Why did you swallow it at all?” John demands, his lips pressed tight as he looks intently into Sherlock’s eyes with a combination of anger and concern.

“It was meant to be romantic,” Sherlock says, a sheepish grin tipping up one corner of his mouth then falling as John continues to stare at him, his gaze hard and unblinking.  He watches the former army doctor take several deep breaths through his nose, then braces himself as John opens his mouth…

…and _laughs_.

Just a giggle at first, but it soon morphs into a chuckle, then eventually becomes a loud guffaw that bends John in two as he struggles to catch his breath as Sherlock’s low rumble of a laugh tentatively joins his.  After a long moment John looks back up at him and rubs his palms roughly over his face as he continues to wheeze with laughter for a bit, then reaches out and cups Sherlock’s face between his hands and squeezes.

“You’re a lunatic, you know that?" John slaps his palm affectionately against one long cheek then darts forward to press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips.  “An absolute nutter.  I am in love with a madman.”

“Technically,” Sherlock says, “you’re _engaged_ to a madman.”

“Right you are,” John agrees, huffing out a short bark of a laugh.  “Pretty sure that says more about my mental state than yours, actually.”

“Perhaps we’re simply a good match, that way."

“No argument there, love.” John sighs, then leans forward to plant a quick kiss on Sherlock’s forehead before climbing out of bed and slipping on his previously discarded pair of boxers from the floor and crossing to the bureau to pull out a clean pair of jeans.  “Get dressed, we’re going back to Bart’s.”

“Is that really necessary?” Sherlock asks, still seated on the bed.  “Dr. Whitford did say that it was likely a ring would pass on its own with very little risk of danger.”

“Yeah, well we’re not going to wait to find out if he’s right.” John rifles through the drawer then tosses clean pants and a pair of socks in Sherlock’s general direction.  “We’re getting that damn thing out of you as soon as possible and onto your finger where it belongs.”

Sherlock sighs resignedly from where he sits on the bed, then finally stands and begins to dress.

John tugs a clean t-shirt over his head, then slips his wallet and keys into his pockets before picking up his mobile and calling to order a taxi.  When the dispatcher confirms it will be outside waiting for them within ten minutes, John ends the call and begins scrolling through his contacts until he finds the one he’s looking for and presses the phone back against his ear as the line begins to ring.

“Pete? It’s John Watson,” he says, when a voice sounds on the other end of the line.  “Actually, I’m perfectly fine.  Look I’m sorry to call so late, but you did say that I should ring you if I needed anything at all, and I’m quite hoping you were serious about that offer.”

He pauses to look over at Sherlock where he stands near the wardrobe, long fingers working at the buttons of his shirt and then tucking the tails into his trousers before he looks up at John with a sheepish expression and an apologetic smile. 

John knows he should be angry.  Furious, even.  What Sherlock did was dangerous and ridiculous and unnecessary and reckless and stupid and ill-advised and—god help him—really, _really_ romantic. 

“I’m afraid I’m in need of your expertise again tonight, Pete," John explains to his colleague.  “It’s about my fiancé…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, as always--comments are 100% encouraged and appreciated and adored and answered and cooed over with manic glee. 
> 
> So every once in a while I get all self-important and start to feel like I've already read all the good Johnlock fic in the world. Luckily, when that happens the universe is always ready and waiting to slap me across the face and tell me to get over myself by way of presenting me with something fabulous that isn't _new_ , but is new to _me_ , and after I read it I'm torn between choreographing and performing an interpretive dance in it's honor and banging my head against the wall because if I'd only found it sooner I could have been loving it for like YEARS ALREADY.
> 
> And in answer the question you're dying to ask: Yes. It is a little hard being this insane sometimes. 
> 
> So in this fic's installment of "This masterpiece was written over _two years ago_? WHY WASN'T I INFORMED OF THIS?" I present for those of you out there who may have (like me) missed it before now the gloriously talented VolceVoice's [A Question of Identity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/381942).
> 
> There's nothing about this fic I don't adore. A murder, a new amnesiac BFF, a clever mystery, a Sally Donovan I want to hug, and it all ends with our boys right where they belong and everything being right with the world? BRING. IT. ON. Seriously, I adored this. I liked it so much I had to try and leave a comment twice because I accidentally deleted my first one. I would have left THREE comments but frankly a restraining order seems like kind of a hassle so I held back.
> 
> Hope you love it as much as I did!


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